


No Penance Due to Innocence

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Erotic Poetry, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), john donne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: A brief and poetic interlude one winter night at the South Downs cottage.-Written for the kink meme prompt foundhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	No Penance Due to Innocence

The snow was piling up on the sill, the fire crackled hot enough that even Crowley had no complaints, and lolling on the rug on the hearth, he was mostly just being a pest when he turned over to look at Aziraphale, who was reading peaceably in his chair and taking the occasional sip of sherry.

“Angel, pay attention to me,” he said, and though Aziraphale didn't look up, a smile ghosted over his lips.

“Of course I can't, my dear, I am reading,” he said, and Crowley made a drowsy discontented sound.

“Then read to me,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “I'm tired of not being the center of attention.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said agreeably, taking another sip from his drink and clearing his throat.

**“ _Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,_**

**_Until I labour, I in labour lie.”_ **

Something about Aziraphale's tone, lower and softer, slightly cajoling, made Crowley look up, but the angel was the picture of innocence, even if the slight emphasis on _labour_ made Crowley blink.

**“ _The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,_**

**_Is tir’d with standing though he never fight._ **

**_Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,_ **

**_But a far fairer world encompassing...”_ **

“Oh... wait, I know this one, this one's dirty, isn't it?” asked Crowley with growing interest, and Aziraphale gave him a prim look over the edge of the book that made it all somehow dirtier.

“It is _poetry,”_ he said. “If I may continue?”

Crowley laughed, flipping over on his back and stretching out with anticipation.

“Oh, please do.”

**“ _Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,_**

**_That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there._ **

**_Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,_ **

**_Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.”_ **

Crowley's fingers found the buttons of his shirt, tugging them free with languid grace, and he trailed sharp nails over the bare skin revealed.

“I'd unlace for you, angel,” he suggested. “You're no fool, I'd let you look all you like.”

A soft breath was all the indication that Aziraphale had heard him, and Crowley unbuttoned his jeans for good measure, slipping a hand inside to cup himself lightly.

**“ _Off with that happy busk, which I envy,_**

**_That still can be, and still can stand so nigh._ **

**_Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,_ **

**_As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals”_ **

Crowley groaned, slightly theatrical, shifting so he could tug his jeans down. He caught Aziraphale's gaze flickering towards the chalk-white flesh revealed, a pale and hairless expanse from his chest down to his thighs, his cock hardening as he palmed the shaft.

“It's good poetry,” he said, and Aziraphale returned to the text.

**“ _In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be_**

**_Received by men-”_ **

“Hey, you missed a bit.”

Aziraphale's head snapped up, Crowley might have thought him irritated at the interruption if not for how well-bitten his lip was and how bright his eyes were.

“I do not care.”

Aziraphale's eyes followed his hands as he scraped his nails lightly down his chest with one hand while stroking his cock with the other. The angel's gaze made him shiver with pleasure, and it was a long moment before Aziraphale went back to the book.

**“ _In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be_**

**_Received by men- Thou Angel bringst with thee_ **

**_A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though_ **

**_Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,_ **

**_By this these Angels from an evil sprite,_ **

_**Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.** ”_

“I make a rather bad angel, angel, but... flesh upright, I can handle that, can't I?”

His cock was fully hard, and as he stroked himself, wetness spilling from the tip to slick the way, he watched Aziraphale watching him, the angel's hands tight on his book, still as a statue because if he made any move at all, it would be over, and neither of them wanted it, whatever it was, to be over yet.

_Ah, the power of verse,_ Crowley thought giddily.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and then another, and when he spoke, there was a pleading note in his voice, less steady, more longing.

**“ _Licence my roving hands, and let them go,_**

**_Before, behind, between, above, below._ **

**_O my America! my new-found-land,_ **

**_My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,”_ **

“Just you for me, angel,” Crowley promised, rocking up into his tight fist. “Just you.”

Inspired by the verse, he paused to kick his jeans the rest of the way off, spreading his legs wide so the angel could see everything, knees cocked, and hips slightly rolled up so he could reach between his thighs.

“Tell me that line again,” he said.”Where do your hands want to go?”

“Before, behind, between, above and below...” Aziraphale breathed.

“Right, right, thanks much...”

Aziraphale made a quiet longing sound as Crowley stroked his hole with his fingertips, gently at first and then applying just a little pressure against the sensitive flesh. The shudder of pleasure had as much to do with Aziraphale's whimper as it did with the shivering tension that racked through him, and he closed his eyes.

**“ _My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,_**

**_How blest am I in this discovering thee!”_ **

Crowley wanted to make a comment about liking a grateful angel, but the problem was that he did, lived for it, for the need in Aziraphale's voice, the idea of being as precious as emeralds, the whole of an empire and all that a conquering principality needed. He was dizzy the thought, his hand on his cock working hard, the other stealing some of the moisture from it to slick his hole. He didn't push inside, but he could feel the give in the flesh there, and oh, he needed more.

**“ _To enter in these bonds, is to be free;”_** Aziraphale said, almost begging, his breath harder. ** _“Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.”_**

“Fuck,” Crowley growled, eyes screwing tighter and hands working harder. “Fuck. You want to mark me, Aziraphale? Put your seal on me, make me yours?”

He knew Aziraphale's sigil, the parallel lines that hinted at what swords dreamed of being, the oblique and voluptuous curves that could drive a seraph to sin. He could imagine that seal dropped on him, traced with fire that wasn't holy, but _better_ , all the better because it was Aziraphale's, Aziraphale's need for him, Aziraphale's claim, Azirphale's words drowning in desire and all for him and –

The climax that shook him was too earthy for thoughts of angelic sigils and fire, but it took him entirely, made him thrash on the rug before curling up on his side. He was messy, overly warm and panting as if he had run a mile, and before he could recover himself, Aziraphale shut his book and came to kneel beside him.

“Well,” Crowley said after a long moment. “Poetry.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, putting a hand on his hip and turning him onto his back.

Crowley mewled in complaint at having his sensitive bits revealed again, but then Aziraphale leaned down, running the flat of his tongue over the slight curve of Crowley's belly, licking a clean path through the mess there. With one hand, he reached up to tug Crowley's shirt off the rest of the way, rough enough in his hurry that Crowley heard the utterly delightful purring sound of ripping fabric.

**“ _Full nakedness!”_ **Aziraphale murmured against his flesh.

**“ _All joys are due to thee_**

**_As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be...”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> With all due apologies to John Donne and _To His Mistress Going to Bed._
> 
> So... we all know that the _O My America_ bit is the moneyshot, right? I did not know poetry had moneyshots until I read Donne.


End file.
